


Her Tongue Tells Tales of Rebellion

by Island_of_Reil



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition, The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison
Genre: Casual Sex, Class Differences, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, F/F, Lesbian Bar, Rough Oral Sex, Sera Uses “Thou” and “Thee”, knee riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-21 20:40:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7403287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Island_of_Reil/pseuds/Island_of_Reil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six months ago, Csoru was Empress. Now she frequents the marno tavern in a seedy neighborhood of Cetho, looking for pleasure that won’t hurt her chances of remarriage. And tonight she’ll go upstairs with a crude commoner she wouldn’t have spit on six months ago — a woman who doesn’t precisely like her, either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Her Tongue Tells Tales of Rebellion

**Author's Note:**

> Very rough version [posted to FFA](http://fail-fandomanon.dreamwidth.org/205697.html?thread=1133142913#cmt1133142913) the other day. Thanks to [farevenasdecidedtouse](http://archiveofourown.org/users/farevenasdecidedtouse/pseuds/farevenasdecidedtouse) for looking the extended version over for me.

The woman shoves Csoru up against the wall of the hallway on the tavern’s upper floor. “I ain’t one for elves, usually. S’like shaggin’ a bag of chicken necks. And thou a fuckin’ posh little cow into the bargain. But this could work.” Metheglin hangs heavily on her breath, and her unadorned ears are tight to her head with predation. “Kinda. Suppose. Maybe.”

Csoru gulps almost audibly, then flushes at the sound. Her own ears jingle as they draw back, though they jingle much less preciously than once they did.

She’s no stranger to this tavern. It draws a strictly marno custom, which draws her too. It’s said among female courtiers no one can cool a lady’s blood like another lady, whose tongue and fingers know their business better than any man’s, and without damaging her prospects of marriage — or remarriage. And being able to creep off to the less-reputable parts of Cetho without raising an alarm is one of the very few silver linings of no longer being Zhasan.

This woman, though. This woman terrifies Csoru even as she makes her damp, makes her clench. She could probably pick Csoru up and break her in half, as easily as most men could. This probability shouldn’t be as arousing as it is.

Csoru had been sipping discreetly at her spiced wine and covertly eyeing a lion-girl with the glossiest fur imaginable, wondering if it were true what was said about the roughness of their tongues, when the woman currently menacing her strode in through the front door. She walked as though the bow and quiver on her back were just an extension of her body. Though her oddly straw-dark hair is cropped like a servant’s, she was holding up her head as though it bore a corona of pearl-wrapped braids. Her eyes went straight to Csoru, then narrowed, before she licked her full lips.

Csoru kept a wary eye on her — only a wary one, that was all; this newcomer was as plain as the bottom of a boot — as the woman approached the taverner and greeted her heartily in an appallingly common accent. The taverner grinned and pushed a tall glass of metheglin across the counter at her. Within two minutes the glass was empty. The woman shoved it forward with a handful of coins, hopped off her stool, and approached Csoru.

“New here, art thou?” Hunger and, oddly for one on the prowl, contempt dueled one another in her blue eyes.

Though Csoru was far shorter, she drew herself up, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin. “We have been here before, actually,” she said, and flicked her gaze dismissively up and down the woman’s body. The wench’s taste alone merited it: that shade of red, with that pattern in that shade of yellow, and the cut of the gown covering her forearms while baring her upper arms and shoulders. Her muscular, _highly_ unfeminine arms and shoulders.

The thick lips pulled back into a sneer. “Lik’st a bit of rough trade now and again, eh, with no damage to the all-important maidenhead? Art savin’ thyself for some titled sort with a nice spread in Thu-Athamar? Or didst land one already, and thy high and mighty lord and husband wouldn’t know what to do with his cock if drew’st him a map of thy snatch?”

Grief with a corrosive edge of anger whipcracked through Csoru. “That is none of your affair,” she snapped.

“Fair obvious it’s either one or the other, poppet. Thou’rt like a piece of spun glass in a box of rusted hammers here. The haughty act alone gives thee away. Thine attempt at dressin’ down for this place is a laugh, too. Doesn’t the weight of all those beads give thee a headache after a while?”

Csoru set her jaw. “Are you always this endearing when you seek to bed another woman?”

The woman bared her teeth. “What see’st is what gett’st, love. I don’t put on airs. Go back to the Unthe-whatever Court if want’st that shite.” She leered again and dropped her voice. “On the other hand, if want’st me to suck all the juice out of thine apricot, make thee see stars and scream for thy Lady of ‘em, come upstairs with me.”

Csoru was more than a little ashamed of the jolt the words sent through her belly. “Er,” she said.

The callused, ragged-nailed fingers of the woman’s left hand had begun to stroke the back of Csoru’s soft, pale right one, with its immaculately lacquered nails. “Come on. Canst ask any of the other regulars round here: I can use my tongue like my bow and arrow. Pretty little poppet like thee, probably tastest like a sweetcake. I’m willin’ to overlook a lot for that. Includin’ highborn attitude.” Her voice dropped a little further. “And, just this first time, needst’nt even get me off. Never licked up a woman who didn’t come crawlin’ back to me like she was lovelorn.”

Csoru hesitated for a moment. This was what she’d come here for, wasn’t it? And, even if this woman weren’t truthful about that last bit, Csoru could use her fingers well enough on another by now; tongues were highly appreciated but not expected.

“All right,” she said. She pushed back her wineglass, leaving a gold coin on the counter along with it.

The woman scowled. “By the look of thee, canst afford to tip better than that.” Csoru rolled her eyes, but she told herself it was the price of tonight’s gratification, and she added another coin to the first.

“Still not exactly generous. But it’ll do.” And the woman grabbed her hand and hauled her toward the rear of the tavern. Csoru, who’d been up the back stairs more than once, tripped along after her. The woman’s legs weren’t especially long, but they were a fair sight longer than her own.

When they got to the second floor, two long corridors and two short ones of cramped little bedrooms at varying levels of cleanliness, the woman looked around for an open door. Finding none, she dragged Csoru down the length of the hallway they were in, then turned the corner. The two of them almost ran smack into one of the barmaids, who had a cleaning towel over one arm and a bottle of cheap vinegar in the other hand.

“Anything open, Mavo?” Csoru’s new friend asked.

The barmaid shook her head. “All taken for now. No sooner got done wiping down the last room than three girls grabbed it.”

“Ah, well. I’ll just have thee out here, I think.” And Csoru’s back hit the wall with an impact that flattened her lungs. The barmaid was walking away in no particular hurry.

“Unless, of course, this isn’t dainty enough for Your Ladyship,” the woman now slurs down at Csoru. “I suppose canst always just go home and rub thyself off instead. Tell me, dost use two fingers? Three? A dildo?” Csoru’s face floods with heat. “Clutch a pillow between thy thighs? Or dost ask one of thy dressing-maids, thine edo-whatsit, to lick thy cunt for thee? Would she dare say no? Does she like the taste of it?”

 _“Stop,”_ Csoru hisses, growing short of breath. Out of the corner of her eye she sees several more women stagger up from the back stairwell, breaking apart into couples. One woman pushes her shorter partner up against the wall, only slightly more gently than Csoru was so pushed, and she shoves a hand under the other’s jacket and begins to paw at her.

“Dosn’t want me to stop, dost thou?” And the air rushes out of Csoru’s lungs again when a solid thigh parts her own and the knee pushes upward. Involuntarily she pushes down against it, riding it, thinking ludicrously of the wooden hobby-horse of her childhood that she straddled well into her early teens, deaf to all pleas about “seemliness,” until one night it simply disappeared from the Celehadeise manor…

“Ah,” the woman purrs. “Get even the posh ones heated up a little and they’re just alley cats lookin’ to be tupped.” She shoves the bony point of her knee harder against the folds of silk between Csoru’s nether lips. “Still want’st my mouth, poppet? Or shall I finish thee off like this?

Csoru closes her eyes. “No…. I … we… please.” The words come out herky-jerky as she bobs up and down on the woman’s knee.

“All right, then.” The woman drops to her knees at Csoru’s feet, rucks up her fine gowns, rips off her silken underpants, and shoves her thighs so far apart she’s hoisting Csoru a few inches into the air.

For the next ten minutes there’s nothing but the fiery-wet point of her tongue tracing the inner lips of Csoru’s quim, then attacking her pearl. And equally fiery shame. Csoru digs the tips of her nails into the splintery wood of the wall and sobs. Enough that she’s here at all, in this tavern, in this part of the city — but now she’s getting licked like a bitch-hound in the street, out in the open. That nobody looks their way once, because at least three other couples are groping one another drunkenly in this corridor, makes it worse, not better.

Eventually the fire of the woman’s mouth burns Csoru’s shame away; the tongue as ruthless and nimble as a sword in the hands of a master pares the last shreds of dignity from her. She bucks with increasing fervor against the woman’s mouth and jaw, seeking more, harder, faster. The woman holds her ably in place, but she obliges the unspoken plea, skittering the edges of her teeth over Csoru’s pearl, dragging a sound out of Csoru like an animal in heat. She ends up pressing her bare shoulder to Csoru’s bare thigh to hold her steady while she works two fingers deep inside her, finding and stroking something within that Varenechibel’s organ never seemed to touch — 

Csoru spends with a choked shout, feeling as though oceans of wetness are flowing out of her. The woman’s grip on her relaxes, and Csoru half-collapses against the wall. Though the hallway spins around her, she manages not to slide down to the filthy floor. Thank the Lady of the Stars for such small favors.

With a slow, deliberate reflectiveness, the woman licks clean the fingers she had inside Csoru. “As tasty as I thought thou’dst be,” she hums happily. Her face shines with Csoru’s wetness, too; after she licks what she can from her lips and the skin around them, she blots her coarse features with her clothed forearm. “Savin’ a bit of that for later,” she says with a lewd grin.

Csoru’s stomach heaves a little. “Uh — I — we must go,” she stammers.

“Late for thy comportment lessons, Your Ladyship?” Csoru doesn’t reply as she shoves her gowns down around her thighs, which stick together uncomfortably. “Don’t forget thy smallclothes,” the woman says in a faux-chiding tone. “They’re as pretty as thou, even ripped.”

“Keep them,” Csoru mutters. Seamstresses talk, after all.

“Don’t mind if I do.” The woman picks up the underpants and presses their crotch to her face, inhaling loudly with her eyes closed and her eyebrows soaring, then letting out a melodramatically blissful sigh. “They’re like leftovers. Better the next day.”

Csoru’s stomach lurches again. She supposes she should thank the woman, but she can’t get any words out. She’s consumed with the urge to be gone, be back at court, and be immersed in a tub of scalding-hot scented water.

“Owest me one,” the woman calls out as Csoru departs as fast as her dignity and her sticky thighs will permit. “Whenever com’st back here, which I’m sure thou wilt, ask for Sera. Everybody knows me and my tongue.” As Csoru gains the back stairwell, the woman — Sera — looses her final shot: “And don’t try for anyone else. They’ll know thou’rt mine. And I don’t share nicely.”


End file.
